What You Need
by Namaste
Summary: Stories of how House came by some of his canes over the years, told through a series of 13 short fics. NOW COMPLETE
1. The First One

The first one is standard issue hospital drab, a dull gray that's supposed to blend into the background along with IV stands and bed rails. There's a hard black plastic grip and House feels sweat under his palm the first time he wraps his fingers around it. It's everything he hates: utilitarian, boring, another sign of how his life has changed.

"It's progress," Wilson points out. "First the wheelchair, then crutches, now the cane, and then ..."

"Then nothing." House holds the cane between his fingers, the metal cool beneath his skin. The crutches are on the floor still within reach if he wants them. "You've seen the same scans I have. It's not going to get any better than this."

"You don't know that. Maybe if you ..."

House stares at Wilson, cuts off whatever useless bit of advice he was about to give. Wilson doesn't say anything else, just stands there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looks down at House.

House waits until Wilson leaves -- until there's no one there to watch -- before he places the cane on the floor, to push down on it and feel it take his weight. He stands there, in front of the couch, hating the way his body angles to one side, the way it depends on this piece of aluminum and plastic. It doesn't feel right, doesn't feel normal, but then normal doesn't mean anything anymore.

He takes a half-step out away from the couch, and thinks for a moment that he's going to fall, that his leg will betray him again. He tries another, feels the weakness on his right side. He feels exposed, like some old fort on a coastline whose defenses have crumbled into the sea. He's vulnerable. Open to attack from one side.

He ignores the therapist's instructions and moves the cane over to his right hand, braces himself against it, and takes another step.


	2. The Second One

The second one is polished mahogany with a gently curving handle. Stacy smiles as she holds it out to him.

"What's that for?"

"I thought you might like it," she says. The smile fades, and she puts the cane's tip on the floor, the handle facing toward him. House ignores it. "I know you hate using one, but you might as well have one that looks good."

"Tired of being seen with a cripple?" he asks. "Maybe you should have thought of that earlier."

Stacy lets the cane fall against the edge of the couch and heads into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She doesn't bother slamming it. House thinks that maybe she's decided he's not worth the effort.

He turns back to the TV, tries to lose himself in the simple soap opera plot, but the parade of perfect bodies in nurses' uniforms and surgical scrubs annoys him, and he changes the channel. He flicks past ESPN long enough to see a wide receiver leap up to catch a perfect spiral pass, then changes the channel again. He finds some old movie -- a gangster flick that Wilson would probably recognize in a heartbeat -- and tosses the remote onto the coffee table.

He leans back, reaches over for his beer and his fingers brush against Stacy's cane. The wood is warm to the touch, rather than the cold sterile surface of the aluminum one, and his fingers linger there for a second before he grabs the beer.

On the TV, Jimmy Cagney lets out a scream in a prison cafeteria, but House finds himself staring at the cane. He lets his fingers wrap around the handle, and feels how it fits into the curve of his palm.

He waits for a moment, expects to hear Stacy from the other room saying that she told him so, but there's nothing. He picks up the cane, holds it out. It's heavier than he expected, but its weight is even, smooth. House finds the midpoint on the shaft, holds it there.

He closes his eyes, and it feels almost natural in his hand, its balanced weight like a pool cue or a lacrosse stick just waiting to be used. House puts it down again. If he uses it, she'll think she was right, like she thinks she made the right decision before.

House stares at the TV screen, black and white images of Cagney's face lit by fire, lit by madness. He turns it off, sees his own reflection in the glass, sees the couch, the table, the cane.

He wants to hate the cane, like he wants to hate Stacy for what she's done. But he can't, just like he can't shake free of her. It doesn't matter what he wants anymore. This is all he has now: Stacy and this slender piece of wood to hold him up, keep him moving forward. He grabs the cane, pushes himself up onto his feet and takes a step.


	3. The Third One

The third one is nearly in his grasp. House sits next to the old man in the chairs at gimp central -- which the hospital directory insists on calling the rehab center's lobby -- and leans his cane against the wall next to the old man's cane. They're nearly identical, both made of dark wood and with a rounded handle, both thirty-six inches long.

There are two differences: a brass ring just below the handle of the old man's cane, and the fact that his didn't come from Stacy. Stacy took her clothes and her books and her CDs when she left. But everything else she touched stayed behind. Each time House takes a step, he still relies on the cane she bought, as if her ghost remains at his side.

It's time, he's decided, for an exorcism.

So he's made a plan. He spent the weekend watching spy movies, seeing the way secret agents would make a simple switch, one identical briefcase for another, in a park or an outdoor cafe or -- he looks around the room again -- some busy hotel lobby. A simple trade: money for secrets.

He's not James Bond, this isn't a hotel, he's not looking for blueprints of a nuclear bomb, and the canes aren't briefcases, but they'll do.

He sits back, studies the man while he waits for his chance to move. The man must be new here. He's on edge, twitchy, looking around at the room, checking his watch, fidgeting each time a nurse walks into the lobby and leads a patient out through the wooden doors hiding the entrance to the treatment rooms. The man has a magazine in his hand, but he's idly flipping pages rather than concentrating on an article.

House sighs. What he needs is a distraction.

He grins, pulls out his cell phone. He hasn't put in regular hours since the infarction, but he still knows how to work the system. He dials the ER extension, then the rehab's unit's extension. Then adds three final numbers: 9-1-1.

When the ER attending and nurse rocket through the lobby doors with a gurney in tow, the old man cranes his neck to the left to see what's going on, and House makes his move. He grabs the man's cane, walks off to the right, then slides out the door before anyone realizes it's a false alarm.

When Wilson gives him a ride home that afternoon, he stares at the cane in House's hand before he pulls away from the curb.

"Is that new?"

"Yep." House holds it up for Wilson to see, the sun reflecting off the brass ring. "It's a little something I picked up after physical therapy today. You like it?"


	4. The Fourth One

The fourth one is leaning against the filing cabinet while House studies the third cane on top of his desk. In the bright light from the lamp he studies the spot where the rubber tip has worn through, leaving a narrow strip of exposed wood.

The wood had made contact with the tile floor this morning, and the cane had skittered out from beneath his hand, sliding toward the wall as his leg buckled beneath him. He hadn't hit the floor. Wilson had been there, moving faster than House thought he possibly could, caught him beneath his left shoulder, held him tight.

House still hasn't decided if he's grateful that Wilson was there, or pissed off that he was.

Wilson is always there to see him at his worst: when he needs help in the bathroom, when the pain's so bad he can barely get out of bed, when two shots of bourbon lead to two more and he can't stop the bitter truth from spilling out in a dark, miserable and long night.

It was Wilson who first spotted the damaged tip, offered to find him a replacement.

House nodded. "Make sure it's attached to a new cane."

"Why ..."

"You know how it is with these high performance vehicles," House said. "First it's a new set of tires, then the transmission blows and the next thing you know, you've got a cracked cylinder head on your hands. I don't want to wait to see what'll wear out next."

Wilson had shown up at House's office an hour later with a new cane -- a dark brown one this time, with a flat handle that Wilson claimed would be more comfortable for long term use.

House had put it next to his desk, then waited until he was alone to pick up the old cane and examine it under bright lights.

He can see it clearly now. The wear pattern on the tip is heavier on one side, showing how he angles the cane close to his body, how it follows his uneven stride. His fingers run along the edge of the cane, feeling the grooves gouged down into the surface, recording every feeble step he's taken.

Once upon a time, he'd studied the wear patterns on his running shoes, diagnosed the under pronation in his left foot from the worn tread, and adjusted his stride until the pattern in both shoes was even.

Now he sits back, kicks off his shoes and brings them up to the light. He turns them over. The tread on the left is worn down more than the right, while the right is a mirror image to the damaged cane tip, showing how he favors one side, how his body angles itself toward the cane, how it depends on it.

He puts the shoes next to the cane on his desk, leans down, and reads the story of his life as it is now, clearly written in pieces of worn rubber and wood.


	5. The Fifth One

The fifth one is dark and slender. House worries it won't hold his weight when he first sees it in the rack, but he likes the way it blends into the display's background. When he picks it up, it's even lighter than he expects.

A card hanging from the handle claims it's reinforced with some high tech polymer that mountain climbers use, and promises it's both light and sturdy. House places it on the floor, and despite the size and weight, it hits the linoleum with a solid sound and feel.

He looks down the aisle, to make sure there's no one watching before he puts a little weight on it. It holds steady and he leans on it a little harder.

House checks the price on the tag, and nearly puts it back in the display. A hundreds bucks is more than he wants to spend on a cane. He hadn't come here looking for a cane at all. He's only in the drug store because at 2 a.m., it's the nearest place to his apartment that's still open and sells cold beer.

They've changed the layout of the place since the last time he was there, and House had to walk past the small stock of canes to get to the beer coolers. He saw the skinny one out of the corner of his eye, and stopped to look at it on his way back.

He holds it up. Forget mountaineering. This is like a fighter jet, this is stealth technology. The dark material seems to blend into the denim of his jeans and he has a momentary thought that maybe something this small and dark will be harder to see -- and easier for strangers to ignore.

House knows he can't hide from everyone. Every step he takes makes it clear that he's a cripple, even if people never noticed the cane they'd see the way his body angles to one side. But it would be nice to think that every once in a while, maybe they wouldn't see it. Even just for a moment.

He puts the cane on the floor again. It feels good under his hand, steady beneath his arm and shoulder. He takes a step forward, then another and another. He walks back to the display. He tucks his old cane under his left arm, grabs the beer in his left hand, places the new cane on the floor and heads to the cash register.


	6. The Sixth One

The sixth one is a bit ... Wilson's eyebrows raise as he looks at the cane House is holding.

"It's a bit ..." Wilson repeats, "ostentatious, don't you think?"

"The word you wanted was 'bling,'" House says.

"No, I'm pretty sure 'bling' is not the word I wanted to use."

Wilson takes the cane, turns it slowly until the engraved silver handle is directly in front of him. He leans in to stare at it.

"It's a snake," he says.

"I thought about buying two of them so I'd have a caduceus, but that seemed a little over the top." House takes the cane back from Wilson, spins it between his fingers. The light shining through the windows bounces off the polished handle and onto the dark walls.

The light flashes past Chase in the other room, sitting at the table, but he pretends to concentrate on his journal once he realizes House sees him. Chase has been working alone ever since Walters quit without giving notice a month ago. House knows he should find a replacement, but hasn't bothered to start looking yet. At least Chase isn't complaining about the extra work.

"And one snake-shaped, silver handled cane isn't over the top?"

House turns away from Chase, looks back at Wilson. "I'm making a statement," he says.

"And that statement would be ... what?" Wilson spreads his hands wide. "Look at me?"

House shrugs. "They're going to look anyway." He senses their eyes on the cane every time he enters a room. Whenever he tries to take a patient history, they just ask about his. It's even worse when they don't ask, and only stare.

At least with Chase there, he doesn't have to bother seeing patients, except when he wants to see them -- on his own terms, and usually when they're too sick to notice the cane or the limp. By then, the only thing they want to know is whether they'll live.

House realizes that Wilson is staring at him, as if he could read his mind just by the set of his eyes or his posture. House rolls his eyes, swings his legs up onto the corner of the desk to distract whatever thoughts Wilson is piecing together. He taps the cane's handle on the opposite side of the desk, points it toward Wilson.

"It's not an everyday kind of cane," House says. "It's only for special occasions."

Wilson closes his eyes for just a moment. When he opens them again, House realizes he's given something away -- or at least Wilson thinks House has. "So it's only for those times when you want people to take notice."

House looks Wilson in the eye. "If you're going to make a statement," he says, "you might as well make it a big one."


	7. The Seventh One

The seventh one is something Wilson picks up on his way to the ER. It's dark brown and boring, and House rolls his eyes when he sees it -- or one eye, at least. The right one is swollen shut.

"Don't bitch," Wilson says. He leans in to examine the row of five stitches holding together the skin just above House's eyebrow. "It's nearly one a.m. I didn't have a lot of options between my place and here. Of course you always could have just picked up a replacement here."

"Anything they have here is even uglier than the one you bought," House says.

Wilson finally steps back, picks up the pieces of the broken older cane from the end of the bed. "Is this where you tell me about how I should see the other guy?" he asks.

House doesn't answer. Let Wilson come up with his own version of events, one involving a barroom brawl rather than an icy sidewalk outside the bar. One where someone takes a swing at House, not one with the cane sliding out from beneath him. One where the guy gets in a lucky shot that knocks him down, not one where House's head slams against a low brick wall just before he hits the ground. One in which the cane snaps when House uses it to push the guy back, not one when it breaks as House slams it against the wall in anger and frustration.

"I refuse to say anything on the grounds that I might incriminate myself," House finally says.

Wilson puts the broken cane back on the bed, crosses his arms over his chest. "Just tell me you don't need me to provide an alibi," he says.

House shakes his head. He explores the edge of the cut with his fingers. "How's it look?" he asks.

"Impressive," Wilson says. "Whoever did the stitches did a good job. Shouldn't be much of a scar." He pauses, steps closer to House again. "How's your head beyond that? Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"I know the signs of concussion," House says. "I'm fine."

Wilson doesn't look like he's satisfied with the answer, but doesn't argue. He steps aside as a nurse walks up to House. She covers the cut with gauze and tape and gives him more to take home along with his discharge instructions.

House jams them in his pocket and reaches for the new cane. He ignores the twinge in his shoulder when he picks it up, and the ache in his hip when he slides off the bed. He knows they're just bumps and bruises, muscle aches. They're nothing.

He puts Wilson's cane on the floor, feels the way the handle fits into his hand. It may be boring, but at least it feels good -- or at least as good as they ever seem to get.

He takes a step forward. "Time to take this out for a test drive," he says, and nods to Wilson. "Let's get out of here."


	8. The Eighth One

The eighth one is something House actually thinks about. For the first time he drives himself to a medical supply warehouse, rather than just grabbing whatever's available or catches his eye. For the first time, he tries out three or four. He hefts each one to get a sense of its weight, its balance, whether it's something he actually wants to have around.

He paces the edges of the store, still feeling the tension in his shoulders that has been there ever since Vogler showed up, that tightened when Wilson said he was leaving, and that even the champagne, the scotch he downed with Wilson back at his place and Cuddy's brilliant move to turn the board against Vogler have failed to loosen.

House still isn't sure why he woke this morning with the idea of a new cane on his mind. He doesn't like spending money on canes -- especially his own money. He'd rather spend money on music, or books, or booze, or sex. A cane is something he needs, not something he wants.

But here he is. He puts a black one with a rounded handle back in the rack, picks out a brown one next to it. It's just a shade lighter than the last one Wilson bought him, but with a flash of silver near the handle.

Maybe he should think of the new cane as Vogler's parting gift, a way to mark outliving another board dictator, a way to use something he needs to mark getting what he wants for once.

And now he wants more. He wants things back the way they were. He wants things the way he had them arranged before Vogler showed up and started ordering him to make changes. House doesn't do well with orders. He never did.

He knows Cuddy wants him to hire a replacement for Cameron, wants him to try to fix everything that Vogler nearly destroyed. House doesn't want a replacement. He wants things the way they were. He needs them the way they were. All the pieces fit before Vogler showed up, and he needs all of those pieces back in place to make things right again.

He takes a few steps with the new cane, feels the way the handle nestles in his palm, the way it matches the calluses that have built up there, the way it seems to fit there beneath his hand and his arm and his shoulder. He leans on it, lets it take his weight.

House holds the cane in front of him, studies his distorted reflection in the silver band at the top. It's not perfect. In a perfect world, he wouldn't need the cane -- wouldn't need to fix what Vogler broke. But it fits. It feels good. And he thinks that it's about time he got something he wants, and not just something he needs.


	9. The Ninth One

The ninth one has got to be steadier than the creaky remains of the one that's now under his hand, threatening to break again with every step. He's splinted the two halves using supplies from the clinic, and encased it in enough plaster pilfered from orthopedics to support a walking cast. But as he takes the two steps down from his apartment to the street, House can feel a faint wobble as if it's about to give way.

"For God's sake, just use one of your old ones," Wilson says as he walks past him. "You've got at least a half-dozen already."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" House asks. "How many more have you filed through?"

"I didn't touch them." Wilson holds up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

House is pretty sure they're safe, but he hasn't had time to check them over yet. "Like I'm going to trust you now."

Wilson drops his head slightly, stands next to the Volvo. "Sure you don't want a ride?"

House shakes his head, but Wilson pauses before he gets into his car. House thinks he's about to offer to pay for the new cane, but after a few seconds he turns the ignition and pulls away from the curb.

At the store, House finally settles on a plain brown one with a curved handle. It isn't much to look at, but he takes it out and feels the wood under his hand. It hits different pressure points in his palm than the old cane. It feels all right for now, here in the first moments with it, but that'll change. By the end of the day, the wood will begin to chafe at some spot that hadn't been touched by the old cane, that hadn't built up a layer of thick skin to protect it.

Tomorrow morning, his shoulder will ache from even the slightest difference in the canes' height and weight.

It doesn't matter how similar two canes may seem. There's always something new, something that's changed, and it'll take at least a week until his body adjusts, until the new cane begins to feel like it's a part of him, until he gets used to it.

And once you get used to something ...

House stares at the bandaged remnants of his old cane and has a sudden picture of it as some mirror image of himself, the plaster forming a reverse impression of the gouge taken out of his thigh.

He pushes the thought out of his head, puts the brown cane on the floor and takes his first steps with it, waiting to see how long it'll take before the first aches and pains of something new begin to set in.


	10. The Tenth One

The tenth one is broken down into four pieces in House's hand. His fingers wrap around the separate parts and the cord that holds them together. He lets go, flicks his wrist and the top three sections assemble themselves into one piece. The bottom one doesn't lock into place and he gives the cane a shake until he hears it click.

House reaches down, takes the cane apart again. Holds it. Shakes the sections loose and watches them snap into place.

His office is dark -- the only light coming from the lamp on his desk and through the blinds along the glass wall and door separating the room from the hallway. He can hear rain beating against his window, though it's not as heavy as it was this afternoon. If he waits it out, maybe he can still ride the bike home tonight without getting soaked. Maybe the pavement will dry enough so his tires won't skid out from beneath him.

He folds the cane again. Tightens his grip around it.

He's never trusted the collapsible canes, always pictured them folding in on themselves whenever he needed them most.

He loosens his fingers, flicks his wrist, feels the parts lock into place. He takes it apart again, tries to get the feel of when it'll support him, and when it won't.

He hadn't even realized it was a collapsible cane until he was back in his office, until he was alone with it to finally study the thing. All he'd known when he grabbed it from the old man in the hallway was that it looked like the right size, and that he couldn't take another step with that orthopedic piece of crap the therapist had forced on him. It was too much like the first one he'd had, the one he thought he'd finally left behind.

House knows he could have gone back to the physical therapy offices, demanded his old cane back, but he doesn't want that one anymore either. It's another one he'd almost begun to believe he could leave behind, the one he'd thought would be the last one. But when the Ketamine treatment failed, it was the one still waiting for him. Taunting him when he opened the closet door.

Let the therapist keep it. Let her burn it. Let her give it to some other poor sap who will stupidly believe that a cane is a step forward, rather than a step back.

House doesn't trust it anymore. He's not sure if he can trust anything. Or anyone.

He folds the cane, shakes it open again, and listens to the rain.


	11. The Eleventh One

The eleventh one is a flight of fancy, a whim. House blames the jet lag and the intoxication that comes from gin, beer and Vicodin along with the jumble of Chinese, Indian and Malay voices that prompt him out of the taxi and into the Singapore night.

His leg aches from too many hours on the flight, and he grabs a hard plastic seat at a roadside food stand, orders a beer and points at a bowl of soup the guy next to him is slurping down.

"Laksa," the guy behind the counter says, and puts a bowl in front of him.

It's hot, hotter than House imagined from inside the air conditioned hotel, and he wipes away the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. He swallows a spoonful of the soup, and feels the heat from chili peppers on his tongue. He smells ginger from the plate of chicken and rice a woman is eating at another table, diesel smoke from passing trucks, the flowers from a roadside stand just beyond the kitchens, and fish from the stall two doors away.

He finishes the food, ignores his leg and wanders deeper into the market. He remembers when he was a kid, exploring every rock in Egypt and every alley in Japan. He doesn't explore anywhere anymore. Traveling hurts. Walking hurts. Life hurts. If it weren't for Cuddy he wouldn't be here now. He never would have left home.

House stops, leans against a wall and digs out his Vicodin. He can see the winding lanes leading further and further back into the market, but he's not a kid anymore. He can't explore like he did back then. He probably never will again. This market is all he'll see, except for the bland hotel with its bland conference rooms.

He sees the antiques shop across from him, filled with English writing desks, tea sets, old bits of regimental armor -- reminders of Singapore's colonial past, of the people who used to travel here, but don't anymore.

The cane is propped up on a table, silver and gold and black lacquer finish. The shop owner shows him the corkscrew hidden inside the handle, the rubies and jade embedded in the wood, the delicate carvings that run the entire length of it.

House doesn't remember the exchange rate. He doesn't care. He'll never be here again, but wants a reminder now that once upon a time, he was here. He was everywhere. That once he used to travel, even if he doesn't anymore. He hands the man his credit card and lets his fingers explore the length of the cane while he waits.

He unscrews the handle, studies the silver spiral of the corkscrew. He imagines it sliding through the cork of a French bordeaux. The hotel has a good wine list, and House smiles and thinks that once he gets back there, it's time for room service. After all, he'll never be here again. He should celebrate.


	12. The Twelfth One

The twelfth one is perfect. No, House corrects himself, not perfect. Nothing is perfect --especially not a cane -- but this is the closest thing he's seen. He rolls it between his fingers: index finger, middle finger, ring finger. The flames pass before his eyes with each rotation, moving in lazy circles through the air.

He wonders who owned it before it ended up in this shop, jumbled in with tobacco and rolling paper and doorknobs and mismatched china sets and old winter coats and dusty books. The store is a cross between a pawn shop, head shop and junk shop. Everything here has a story, some history that's been forgotten. It reminds him of everything he had to leave behind when he was a kid, of toys and books and music scattered all around the around the world.

"You ready?" Wilson asks. He's standing by the door, already reaching for the handle.

"What's your hurry?" House turns away from the entrance, walks further into the shop.

"I've got a patient," Wilson says. "So do you."

"Your kid's not going to get any better without new bone marrow, and my kid's not going to be able to give it to him until we see if he improves by taking him off his meds. What difference does it make whether we wait there or here until we have an answer?" House expects to hear Wilson walk out the door, but after a few seconds, he sees Wilson's shadow on the bookshelf beside him.

Wilson grabs one of the books, opens it. House looks over his shoulder, watches the Ansel Adams landscapes flip past on each page before Wilson stops at one of the Yosemite photos: a pine tree growing on the edge of a mountain top, shaped by harsh winds until its shade falls onto a lonely set of rocks.

House heads down another aisle, finds hockey skates next to pots and pans. The shop is confusing, a riddle. Every time he thinks he knows what he'll find, something surprises him. It keeps him guessing. He knows Wilson would say that's why he comes here, because the place is its own puzzle, but that's not it.

It's because it's messy. Unorganized. Because nothing is ever the same. Because if you don't grab something you want when you first see it, there's no guarantee you'll get another chance.

It's because things get lost, and get left behind -- and because sometimes, things can be found.

He picks up the cane again, studies how the flames twirl around the base, changing color from red to orange to yellow as they climb up the staff. He hears Wilson's footsteps behind him, knows without looking that Wilson's checking his watch. Knows that they have to leave.

House drops the cane back to the ground, leans against it and feels the way it tucks neatly against his body as he walks toward the door. It's perfect -- or as close to perfect as he's ever seen.


	13. The Thirteenth One

The thirteenth one ... House pauses with his hand in the air. Thirteen, he thinks. He reminds himself that he's not superstitious, but he still doesn't take the cane, and Cuddy lowers it to the floor.

"Maybe you should wait a little longer," she says. "Get more rest."

"I've been resting," House says and takes the cane. He's not sure what he expects when he pushes down on it and stands. It's just another cane. He'd even used it briefly in the hours after the bus crash. When Cuddy showed up to drive him home, she had it with her. He wonders now when she had the time to pick it up.

That was a week ago. The blond cane has leaned against beds and dressers and tables ever since -- from the ICU to the step-down unit and finally to this private room on the third floor. It was there every time he opened his eyes, a reminder of what he'd lost. Of things that changed, and things that would never change. It was there. Wilson wasn't.

"He stopped by when you were asleep," Cuddy told him one day. "He didn't want to wake you up." She'd looked away from him as she spoke, and he hadn't been able to tell if it was a lie. He's pretty sure it was.

Kutner had offered to look through the wreckage for the old cane. House had told him not to bother, but didn't tell him why. He didn't know if he could explain it anyway. It was just a sense that it was broken into pieces, broken beyond repair. Somehow it seemed appropriate that he should lose that, along with everything else.

Cuddy's cane is just a substitute, but it's steady under his hand. He feels a slight tremor in his arm, but knows that has nothing to do with the cane.

Cuddy hovers as he makes his way across the room and into the wheelchair that'll take him out of here. Finally. The halls are nearly empty, just one nurse at the station who glances up as they pass. Cuddy's true to her word, letting him leave before anyone comes by with another empty sentiment.

There's no one he wants to see anyway.

No, he corrects himself. That's not true.

The funeral was three days ago. Cuddy says Wilson has taken time off to go through Amber's things, to handle all the paperwork that death brings in its wake.

Cuddy's car is parked just outside the main entrance, and she opens the passenger door, waits as House puts his feet on the ground, places the new cane on the concrete.

The cane angles in against him like it belongs there, but House knows it's only instinct that guides it, muscle memory, a movement that's ingrained in every step he takes -- every step he's taken ever since that first cane.

He tells himself that this is just another cane. Numbers don't mean anything. He braces himself against it and takes another step.


End file.
